


you are enough

by ironarana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Like LOTS of angst, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, author projects her own issues onto fictional characters to cope, you know how I do
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironarana/pseuds/ironarana
Summary: “I just wanted to be like you.”“And I wanted you to be better.”Tony wants Peter to be better than him so he’ll try to be.He’ll try.Even if it means fighting a copycat version of Spider-Man.
Relationships: Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 15
Kudos: 24





	you are enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blondsak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/gifts).



> i'm gonna save lots of my notes for the end but huge huge HUGE GINORMOUS shout out and THANK YOU to blondsak for beta'ing this fic for me. this fic is dedicated to her for being a super amazingly kind human and for being an incredible writer. lots of love for you sweet blondsak <3
> 
> title is inspired by sleeping at last's song "you are enough"
> 
> enjoy!!

_“I just wanted to be like you.”_ _“And I wanted you to be better.”_

Tony wants Peter to be better than him so he’ll try to be. 

He’ll try. 

-

Peter is swinging through downtown Manhattan when he sees him: a blurry flash of red and blue rounding the corner of a skyscraper. He sighs. “Finally, the first lead in weeks.” 

He alters the trajectory of his web and shoots, changes course and follows the blur of red around the block. Below him, the city rushes by. Taxis, citizens, cars. There are decorations and streamers hanging from shop windows and banners flapping in the wind underneath street lamps. Spider-Man Appreciation Day is in two weeks. 

It fills him with both a swell of pride and a burst of energy. He swings forward, flips in the air just to show off and everyone below him claps and cheers. His ears echo with it, heart beating faster as he swings after the copycat. 

It’s the first time in weeks Peter has actually seen him. There’s been suspected rumors of a copycat Spider-Man stopping crimes he didn’t, hanging around neighborhoods Spidey doesn’t normally associate with. Even New York natives know that Hell’s Kitchen isn’t his territory. 

Peter wants to stop him or at least ask him why he’s doing this. There’s only one Spider-Man in New York and while he would appreciate the help, he doesn’t want this guy or girl getting themselves into trouble. 

“Karen, can you zoom in on them?” Peter says, breathless. The wind howls, a chill cutting through his suit. His lungs feel tight with exertion. “Maybe see what they’re working with?” 

“Sure thing,” she replies and the lenses on his mask contract, his field of vision blurring and coming into focus again. “Hmm. It looks like their suit material is not standard Stark Industries material.” 

“What about their webshooters?” he asks because surely, amateur made ones should’ve run out by now. Or at least soon because Peter is slowly running out of steam and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go on. He’s already been out several hours and he’s just about ready to collapse on the nearest rooftop. 

“My sensors are not within range, we’d have to get closer,” Karen replies. 

He sighs exasperatedly. “Great.” 

The copycat suddenly veers left and flings himself around the corner, flying down the street. Peter swears and alters course. He shoots a web and yanks it, jerking himself around the corner. His stomach launches into his throat and for a second, he can taste Delmar’s sandwich until he swallows it down. He groans. 

“Karen, I don’t think this is going so well,” he says aloud. 

“Would you like me to engage autopilot controls? It’s called the Backseat Driver Protocol.” 

He shakes his head before realizing Karen can’t see him. He doesn’t think Tony would use it unless it was absolutely necessary. So he decides to hold off on it. “No, it’s fine, I just need to catch this guy, that’s all.” 

“Why do we need to catch him? After all, he’s stopping crimes.” 

“Yeah, dressed like me, Karen,” he replies and flips in mid-air, nearly dodging a bird that was innocently flying by. He grunts in frustration. “Can we slow this guy down?” 

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she says and before he can even ask why, the copycat swings into a side alley and Peter stops shooting, slows his momentum and flips down into the same alley from above. Brick walls crawling with vines rise around him as he lands in front of the copycat. 

It’s a red and navy suit. All fabric, like the first one he ever made. The webshooters are mechanical and clunky. Not as refined. They look heavy. 

“Hey!” Peter yells, his voice reverberating. “Who are you and why are you dressed like me?” 

It’s not the best way he could’ve said it. But then again, he’s had a long day and spent so many weeks chasing down leads that he’s tired enough and desperate enough to let it show in his voice. Just a little. 

They stand like that a moment, both of them breathing heavy, the air tense between them. Peter’s heart is hammering away at his ribcage, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He’s on edge but holding back, wanting to give the copycat a chance to explain. 

“Hey! I’m talking to you. Who are you and why-” 

He’s cut off suddenly by motion, by the copycat disappearing into thin air. One second he’s there and the next, it’s like he turned around and vanished. Peter runs forward into the alley, sidestepping mountains of garbage bags lining each wall. He waves his arms around to see if there’s anyone still there but no. They’re gone. His one lead and he lost it. 

His shoulders rise and fall with ragged breaths. “Karen, scan for thermals.” 

She trills a moment and then beeps conclusively. “Thermal imaging scan: negative.” 

Peter sighs. Peter shoots a web and lands on the edge of the building. 

Peter goes home. 

-

Here is where they have settled: Peter can go out as Spider-Man all days of the week except Sunday. During the school week, there is a strict night curfew and if he’s caught breaking it, he’s grounded for three days straight. So today, Thursday, after everything that happened with the copycat, he calls it quits and just heads home.

The sun has begun to set over the horizon, a dim layer of darkness falling over the city when he lands on the fire escape, which rattles beneath his weight. He opens the living room window and unceremoniously slips inside before closing and locking the window behind him. Before he even takes off his mask, he can already taste all the savory scents through the air. It smells like garlic and cloves and cilantro, like comfort, like May’s Italian cooking. 

He closes the curtains over the window and checks to make sure no one is looking before he grips the top of his mask and yanks it off his head. “May?” he calls out into the apartment. 

“Kitchen!” she hollers and Peter rounds the edge of the living room couch and crosses the kitchen threshold to see her standing over the stove, her brown hair in a messy bun atop her head. The patchwork apron Ben gave her for Christmas hangs from her waist. She turns to look at him, a finger in her mouth. She smacks her lips, her brows creased in consideration and deep thought. 

“What is it?” he asks, worry building like a wave inside him. It’s just about to crest when she finally says, “Hmm, needs salt.” 

He sighs with relief, feels himself come back down. “God, May, you scared me.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just think it’s kind of cute when you get all worried like that,” she says with a teasing smirk on her face as she reaches into a cabinet. 

He inwardly groans. “It’s not cute.” 

She shrugs. “It kind of is.” She jabs a thumb in the direction of the hallway as she returns to the stove where tomato sauce boils, little red bubbles bursting. “Go get changed, soup’s on in ten.” 

“Will do,” Peter says with a mock salute and then he heads into the bathroom, where a fresh change of clothes is already waiting for him. 

He flattens his hand over the emblem on his chest and lets the suit fall from his shoulders. It feels like a weight has been lifted. No more responsibility, he briefly thinks and then chides himself. Tony wouldn’t think like that. Tony is responsible and he takes it seriously. Peter needs to take it seriously too. 

He lets his mind wander a bit as he changes clothes. Maybe he should back out later tonight after May is in bed. After all, it’s a Saturday and a lot can happen on a Saturday night if he’s not out there to stop it. Tony asked him to be better than him so he has to try to be. He has to try to be enough, do enough, say enough. 

And then he looks in the mirror. What he sees is someone with caves for eyes and twin shadows underneath them. He can’t remember the last time he’s slept. One night of fighting after another after another. He just wants to lay it all down. 

But it’s not something he can just lay down whenever he wants. Crime doesn’t take a day off. Neither can he. 

May calling for him interrupts his thoughts. 

He shoves the suit in the laundry hamper and then joins her for a late dinner. 

-

“So I was thinking,” May starts after she says grace. “That you could invite Ned over the night, after Spider-Man Day. Do you even know what they’re doing for that?” 

Peter twirls his fork in pasta and shrugs. “I-No, not really.” 

The room goes still. Peter looks to see May fixing him with an intent stare and a raised brow, meaning she knows something is going on and she wants him to know it. 

“Come on, what’s going on? I know you know I know something is going on so what is it? Aren’t you happy about Spider-Man Day?” 

He is happy about it but the truth is he doesn’t know if he deserves it. He let his only lead get away earlier today and that’s just the tip of the iceberg in terms of colossal failures that have occurred the last few months. May knows about some of them but Tony knows about most of them and it’s the difference between the two Peter hates. 

And he’s just tired. He’s been trying to be better. Trying to do his homework on time, trying to be there with friends, trying to get to decathlon and be Spider-Man and be with May. Tony can juggle everything he has to do and he handles even more than Peter. He can do this on his own. He can be enough, do enough, say enough. He has to. 

“I am, I’m just-I’m tired,” he says, which isn’t necessarily a lie. 

“When’s the last time you slept, honey?” May gently asks. 

It’s been a week. Every single time he sleeps he wakes feeling more tired than he was the night before. It empties him out. Just once, he’d like to be replenished by it. 

“Hey,” May says. “Take two Tylenol and go to bed. It might suck but at least you’ll sleep.” 

Peter forces a half smile onto his face. “Thanks.” 

So after dinner, he washes the dishes because he’s trying to be better about that. Trying and trying and trying. So many little things all build into one. He’s never realized how monumentally heavy they all collectively feel. 

Once the dishes are in the drying rack, Peter goes to the bathroom and roots around in the medicine cabinet until he recovers the Tylenol PM. He doesn’t bother telling May they won’t work because his system will burn right through them in a few hours. She watches him take two and wash them both down with water. She wraps her arms around him and he relaxes in her embrace, his arms tight around her, all his worries and the world outside melting away. 

When he goes to bed, the last thing he registers is the press of May’s soft lips against his forehead before he drifts into oblivion. 

-

It’s still dark outside when he wakes. 

He rolls over in bed, his head feeling heavy and like it was stuffed with cotton drenched mud. His tongue is thick in his mouth, his half lidded eyes burning as he squints through the darkness. He reaches a hand out in search of his phone and finds it on his nightstand, checks the time. 12:09am. He barely slept three hours. 

And this is how it goes lately: Peter barely sleeping, Peter throwing back the covers and rising from bed, Peter changing into his suit and then laying back down to watch the red blinking dots on the police scanner that sits on his nightstand, secretly hoping it will go off, secretly dreading it if crime decided to take it slow for the night. 

He slowly blinks as he watches the red dots, listens to the occasional static burst or ten code that comes over the scanner he built from scratch. The night is young, so is Peter. He just wants to sleep but then again, he lives in the city that never does. Is that parallelism or irony? He doesn’t know. He’s failing his English class. 

He blinks and ten minutes have gone by. He blinks again and so have twenty more. He’s losing time, second by second, minute by minute. Keeping track of some things, losing track of others. It feels like it’s starting to fall apart, like Peter might start unraveling at any moment.

It’s a ten code that snaps him out of his stupor. “10-32, we have reports of a man with a gun in the alley at the corner of 35th and 6th.” 

It’s small fish, Peter knows, and probably below Spider-Man’s pay grade but he jumps out of bed anyways and unlocks his window, climbs out onto the fire escape and swings away into the night. 

The city when it’s dark is something different than during the day. It’s more dangerous, sure, but it’s also more beautiful. The way the buildings shine like beacons in the night for lost and weary travelers. The lights blur together as they rush by, the soundtrack of midnight hustle and bustle rising to meet his ears and spin like a record in his brain. Taxi cabs honk in greeting, in frustration. Billboards flash and burn into his retinas, illuminating his way to 35th and 6th. 

He lands on the edge of a building and flips down into the alley below, right in front of the armed man. His landing rattles his bones, rippling from his feet to his head, which goes lightheaded a moment. He sways dizzyingly on his feet and then regains traction. Focus, he tells himself. Concentrate. Come on, Spider-Man, come on. 

“Excuse me,” he shouts and gestures to the space between them, “this is a gun free zone, mister, so I’m gonna have to take that off your hands.” 

He shoots a web at the barrel of the gun and yanks it out of the man’s hands. It clatters to the ground behind Peter. The man advances on him. Peter groans. “Seriously?” 

The man throws a punch. Peter blocks it. Then the man goes to try and sweep his feet out from underneath him but he’s not fast enough or strong enough. Peter jumps back out of reach. The man snarls, nostrils flaring like an angry dog. His eyes fill with rage. 

“Come on, dude, just call it quits,” Peter says. “The cops are gonna be here any second.” 

But because the man is having a bad night, and so is Peter, he blinks and misses the flash of silver that flies through the air with a whistle. His spider sense fires off at him seconds too late, electricity trickling sharply down his spine as his forearm stings with pain. Peter yelps. His eyes water. The knife sliced cleanly through the fabric of his suit. 

Stunned, the only thought that comes to mind is that something is wrong, his sense should’ve warned him, and then something heavy slams into him and he’s knocked to the ground. Above him, buildings tilt and blur. The stars are blotted out by a shadow. 

The man towers over him and lands hit after hit, blow after blow to Peter’s face and side. He moves his arms to block his face and then curls on himself. He springs his feet against the man’s chest. He flies back into the alley and lands with a shout. 

Peter sucks in a breath before he rolls over. The motion rips a cry of agony from his throat as he forces himself to stand, the ground unsteady beneath his feet. His abdomen feels like it’s burning, his eyes throb. Karen is talking but every other word filters through. His ears are screaming and whining. 

_“-multiple contusions-concussion-emergency-Tony-”_

No, Tony wouldn’t call for anyone. Tony can handle these things on his own, which means Peter has to. He has to be better, has to be enough, do enough, say enough. He has to try. He has to-

He’s knocked back into a car. Glass shatters. The man’s face is in his own, his unhinged eyes wide. Veins bulge in his neck. His hands are around Peter’s throat, his thumbs pressing down on his trachea. 

“I’m gonna crush you like the bug you are, Spider-Freak,” he threatens and then laughs. 

Peter’s vision swarms with darkness at the edges, slowly crawling over everything he knows. His head goes light. His chest tightens as his heart hammers against his ribcage. He’s gonna die if he doesn’t act. 

But he doesn’t have to. 

Suddenly, the man is thrown off him and Peter sucks in a huge breath, falls to his knees. He swallows down air hungrily and then falls into a coughing fit. His body heaves for air. His side screams with excruciating agony. 

Once he’s more with it, he lifts his head to see New York’s Finest wrestling the man to the ground and handcuffing him. A cop swims into view, his brow creased in concern. 

“You alright, Spider-Man?” he asks. “You need medical attention?” 

Peter coughs. “No, I-I’m good,” he rasps. God, his voice sounds awful. “I’m okay, thank you.” 

“You need a hand?” the cop asks and extends one, draws Peter to his feet. 

“Thanks,” he manages, hating how his vocal cords seem to grate against each other. He watches the officers lead the man away and load him into the back of a squad car. Guilt rises like a tide in his churning stomach. His throat burns with nausea. He should’ve done more. He didn’t do enough. He didn’t do better. He didn’t-

“You sure don’t need anything, Spider-Man?” the cop asks. “We can give you a ride to the one-seven if you’re looking for a place to crash.” 

Peter shakes his head minutely and regrets it. Bile leaves an acrid taste in his mouth. There’s two of everything. His head throbs. Everything is intense and loud. 

“No, it’s-it’s okay, thanks,” he whispers wetly. His eyes are wet, face damp. Has he been crying? 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore. He needs to be better. His best wasn’t good enough tonight and he’ll carry the weight of his failure well after tomorrow morning. 

The officer remains unconvinced but he steps back anyways, allows Peter space and the dignity of his choice. 

Peter flies into the night, hitches a ride on the late night train out of Manhattan and rides it all the way home. 

-

The dim bathroom lighting reveals an awfully colorful mosaic of bruises: dark violet, blue and green, riddling his side from the top of his ribcage down to his hips. 

His neck is red and irritated, vocal cords swollen. One eye is completely blackened, the other with little cuts around it. His lip is split. He wonders if he could convince May to let him stay home from school tomorrow. Everything aches. 

Peter tries to wrap his mind around what exactly went wrong. He had it handled until the guy threw that knife. His spider sense should’ve warned him but it hadn’t. Peter’s sliced forearm throbs dully. 

He’ll think about it tomorrow. He’s too tired to continue his train of thought, too consumed by the swirling black hole in his chest that threatens to consume him. Emptying and emptying. He wasn’t enough. Nothing he did was enough. Nothing he said was enough. 

He shoves the suit back in the laundry basket and stashes all the medical supplies in the cabinet above the bathroom sink. He goes to bed and this time, he actually sleeps. 

But still, it’s not enough. 

-

“Dude, did you hear about that party Kim Jones is throw-oh. Dang.” 

It’s an appropriate reaction. Ned’s jaw slackens in horror, his brown eyes wide with worry. Peter ducks his head down in hopes that none of the other students milling in the hallway will notice. 

“Oh my God, Peter, you look awful,” Ned says. “What-what happened? Is everything okay?” 

Peter jabs a thumb at his throat and then makes a cutting motion. The realization dawns on Ned. 

“Your voice is gone?” Peter nods. Ned continues. “Oh no, that sucks, man, I’m so sorry. Here, let me grab your bag for you.” 

It slides off his shoulders with ease. He stifles a groan which irritates his throat. He coughs weakly as he follows Ned through the undulating crowd. His side aches with movement. Usually, his bruises should’ve begun to at least fade by now but when he looked in the mirror this morning, it was like they’d gotten worse. 

They come to a halt outside his locker. Ned shifts the backpack from hand to another. “You wanna open it? You have English your first hour, right?” 

Peter nods and spins his locker combination in, takes the lock off with one hand and lets Ned shuffles his books around for him. Three books in, three books out. He tries not to think about how weak he feels, about how weak this whole arrangement makes him feel. 

Tony can handle things on his own. Peter should be able to too. 

But because he’s weak, because his whole world is off-kilter, he doesn’t sense someone coming from behind until he’s knocked into his locker, the wind leaving his chest. 

In the corner of his eye, he watches Flash spread his arms in an offended gesture. “Golly gee, Parker! Maybe watch where you’re going next time.” 

Flash disappears into the crowd and Ned moves closer with a worried expression. “Dude, you okay?” 

He’s a little breathless but yeah, he’s okay. Flash isn’t what he’s concerned about right now. 

What he’s concerned about is his spider sense, which didn’t warn him about the knife two days ago. What he’s concerned about is his bruises, which should’ve begun to fade by now but they haven’t. What he’s concerned about is how he wasn’t warned Flash was gonna knock right into him. 

And all at once, everything seems to slot together to form a realization. 

Slowly, it dawns on him that something is wrong. 

Something is very, very wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had the concept for this fic in my brain for MONTHS but i've lacked the inspiration and plot for it for so long. i tried and failed to write this fic a dozen times over but a few days ago, i wasn't even planning on writing. i just sat down and wrote this and all started coming out so smoothly. pretty proud of the first chapter's quality and i can't wait for where i'm going to take this story. 
> 
> don't expect quick updates. i really want to take time with this one and make sure i'm doing it justice. also work is a thing that i'm dedicated to that exists so...there's that. 
> 
> that's all i got!! be sure to leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed and if you'd like, feel free to follow me on tumblr!! i'm pretty active there for the most part. it's ironarana, same as here
> 
> lots of love!! i've missed you all so much and i'm really excited to be posting again <3


End file.
